a wolf age ere the world falls
by Wannabe Darklord
Summary: The boy in the weirwood dreams of another world, where heroes exist that can help save them all. He reaches through and pulls. Blue light fills him as the universe tears apart. The world changes. [For Crossovering 2017. Where the Avengers are pulled into Westeros to help with their White Walker problem. Contains canon typical violence and references to sexual assault.]


**A/N:** Written for Vaznetti for Crossovering 2017. Comments are always appreciated!

 _The boy in the weirwood dreams. A storm crashes over the land while cold death stirs and wakes far far into the frozen north, where no man can live. His family is dead or scattered and none can see the danger rising._

 _Once long ago, he had dreamed he was falling. He has wings now to hold him up, but the fierce winter wind makes it a struggle and he fears losing control. He fears falling. He doesn't want to fall, doesn't want to feel so helpless ever again._

 _The storm is below him now and it stretches back as far as he can see, farther than his own lifetime. Sometimes it ebbs, but it never ever ceases. He lets out a dismayed cry. What hope can there be while the storm rages?_

 _He follows the storm, going farther and farther into the beginning. He descends into the howling winds and the crashes of lightning that leave his ears ringing with the sound of steel. It dims sometimes, but it is always there. There has to be an end. There has to be a beginning._

 _A light flickers before him, wholly different from the other flashes of lightning. This one is also bright and piercing, but flowing instead of sudden. It moves like blue smoke, an intensity in its heart that frightens him. As he moves closer, he realizes that he can see things in the light. Wonderous things._

 _He can see stars that shine brightly against an encroaching darkness. But that darkness is far far away and the cold he faces is so so close._

 _As though in response to his thoughts, blue and gold tendrils rush closer and brush against him gently. Surely he can reach for those stars? Any light will do against the cold and the dark. What could be the harm? There were so many other stars, how could these be missed?_

 _The boy in the weirwood reaches and pulls. Blue light fills him as the universe tears apart. He screams._

 _The world changes._

* * *

The day of Robert's victory on the Trident, a massive storm sweeps across Westeros. It is swift and sudden, a violent cacophony of rain and thunder that darkens the bright daylight into a grey blue haze.

Unseen and unnoticed, several stars fall towards the earth. At first close together, their trajectory leads them careening away from each other. Two fall far away, further than the rest. The earth doesn't shake in their passing and they leave no trace but for the light.

It rains for days. The smallfolk whisper the storm is cursed, unnatural. They speak of strange lights and noise, of whispers that lead them astray in the dark and ghosts that wander into the mists.

The storm passes as suddenly as it comes, revealing the bright sun once more _._

* * *

Anton Stark dreams of falling. Monsters lurk in the dark beyond his sight, an unfathomable horror he cannot see clearly. He cannot run, he cannot get closer. His limbs are heavy in his armor and he cannot move. He can only fall.

He has time before the threat is dire, he knows. But not enough, never enough. The cold will come when the stars go out and death descends from the sky. _Winter is coming_ , someone whispers with a flutter of wings. He can't turn to see who it is, can only watch through his helm as flame overwhelms the enemy against the pitch black backdrop of space.

Ice seeps through his armor, through his skin and bones. It is so cold. The fire in front of him dies only to be replaced by a grey mist. Pale figures glide towards him out of it, somehow getting closer even as he falls. Their eyes burn like blue fire, filled with hate. There is something so familiar about the color and glow, something he should -

"My lord Stark!"

Tony wakes up to the sound of rain pounding against the roof of the inn he has taken shelter in. Though 'inn' is a charitable description; it is a far cry from the essosi inns he has grown used to.

His questioning grunt is borderline rude, but his thoughts are still fuzzy from his sleep and that dream. He has had that dream for as long as he could remember and he is beyond tired of it.

"You asked to be woken early, my lord. Your horse is being saddled and there is food in the common room to break your fast," the innkeeper says, still hovering by the door. Tony sits up and rubs his face.

"My thanks," he finally says and the innkeeper bows and scurries out. Why is he going out in this weather again? He eyes the storm raging outside and grimaces.

Because he needs to get to Ned. Rain or no, the army isn't going to wait before moving for King's Landing. Hopefully, the rain will slow them down enough Tony can catch up.

Scarcely an hour later, he is back on the road. It feels like he has been travelling forever. He is soon soaked to the bone, but perseveres. He will not fail Ned like he failed his goodbrother and other nephew.

Deep into the evening, he almost stumbles upon the first sentries of a massive army camp. Even with the storm making everyone wet, muddy and miserable it seems to be in good order. His name gets him an escort to a large tent within the camp. He doesn't wait for the guard to finish announcing him before he barges in.

He ignores the hands tensed on swords and just stares. Ned is looking up from a table strewn with maps and letters, staring at him in astonishment. Tony has to swallow to keep his emotions contained. Ned has grown so much from the quiet boy running at his heels. He looks far to grave for his young years, even though he is now a man grown, a general in a war that should never have happened.

"I returned as soon as I heard," Tony manages. It's a pitiful excuse. He should have been here from the start of it, maybe even stopped the events from happening entirely.

"Uncle!" the relief in Ned's voice is enough to almost drown him in another surge of guilt. Instead, he smiles.

"Hey kid."

The guards behind him make a discreet exit as Ned rushes forward and draws him into a hug.

"Oof, you weren't this tall last time," Tony jokes, clutching his nephew as hard as Ned is clutching him. Ned is trembling from emotion, but when he pulls away, he is composed enough to smile. It fades far too quickly.

"So much has happened, uncle. I'm glad you're here."

Tony shrugs.

"Where else could I be? I'm only sorry it's taken me so long to get here. If I'd been here instead of gallivanting around in Essos, maybe -"

He's never been fond of his goodbrother, true, but he could not stay away after hearing what happened. Would anything have changed had he not gone travelling (had not fled) after Lyarra's death? He'd only visited Winterfell twice in his journeys, too fascinated by the technology in Essos to return. He's always meant to after he learned what he wanted - he still has so many ideas to improve their lives, to better the people of the North. It feels hollow now. Still, if there is anything he can do, he will. Like hell was he going to let them deal with Aerys without him.

Ned shakes his head, something bleak in his eyes.

"There was nothing you could have done. Aerys is a madman and Rhaegar was little better. A war like this was bound to happen sooner or later. If only Lyanna hadn't…"

This time he is the one to fall silent, a curious expression on his face. Tony's eyes widen in realization.

Oh no. The girl can't have been _that_ stupid, surely? She is a wild one, but not without sense.

"She went willingly?!" Tony struggles to keep his voice low. The rain will keep any others from hearing them either way, but it pays to be cautious. It will be a disaster if this becomes widely known before the rebellion is over, one way or the other.

"I suspect so. But I can't believe she would have stayed away once she heard about father and Brandon. _If_ she heard...There has been no word of her at all since she disappeared."

Tony sighs, rubbing at his chest. It has ached oddly ever since Afghanistan. He pauses, puzzled by the thought. He'd gotten the injury somewhere in Yi Ti. He's never even _been_ anywhere called Afghanistan. Has he?

Ned's voice pulls him from his thoughts.

"We will be making for King's Landing on the morrow. The rain had delayed us. Will you join me?"

Tony meets Ned's eyes. They are burning with a quiet intensity Tony finds very familiar. He smiles, a sharp slash of a grin Lyarra had always called his wolf smile.

"Let's go rip Aerys a new one for Rickard and Brandon. And we'll make damn well sure we'll avenge them."

* * *

Thoros Lannister had argued fiercely with his brother against this course. But Tywin had spoken and Thor, as always, obeyed. While he agrees that King's Landing must be taken, it need not be brought down to _this_. Instead of glorious combat, they have tricked their way inside and put the city to the sword.

He urges his horse through the streets, his gorge rising at the devastation around him. Fires have broken out in places, terrified citizens being herded like cattle to the slaughter as Lannister soldiers loot their homes and rape their women. The goldcloaks are less than useless, abandoning their posts at the first opportunity. Often, they join in. Those, Thor has no qualms about killing.

But it is hardly sportsmanlike to kill defenceless women and children. He will not participate in the killing in the streets, despite Tywin's orders. Instead, he makes his way up to the Red Keep, where there are at least trained knights and guards to fight. Those with enough courage and training to make an honest stand, those who can provide a challenge to his might.

Perhaps he will even face the Mad King himself. The rest of his kingsguard must be there with him as well, for word was that they had not been at the Trident with Rhaegar. Gerold Hightower, Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent and Steffon Rogers, great fighters all and worthy of a proper duel.

Though...that means he will face Jaime as well. Will his nephew yield to his vows or to his father? The thought of facing the King is suddenly less appealing. He has no desire to fight his kin, not anymore.

The depth of grief at the thought makes Thor shake his head. He has had arguments with Tywin and Tygett, but nothing to an extent that would justify so much pain. Perhaps it is simply his unease with this course of action.

The doors of the Red Keep are barred to him when he arrives with his group of men. However, they quickly subdue the forces at the castle; though these men had slightly more mettle than the goldcloaks, they prove to be no match for his prowess.

Thor thrills in this good _honest_ fighting, letting out a roar of approval as he bashes away at knights with his hammer. None can withstand him. He fights his way through the keep, avoiding the great hall. It is unworthy of him, but he does not dare face Jaime before he knows where his loyalties truly lie. He has had enough of fighting family _(though he has never fought his family)_.

Soon enough, there are no more knights to fight. Thor takes a moment to rest and for the first time notices he has made his way to the royal apartments. But for the blood dripping from the head of his hammer and his own barely laboured breathing, it is eerily quiet.

He is about to turn and head back when a woman's scream pierces the air. It is close, only a hallway or two away. Without hesitation, Thor runs for the sound. It had shamed him to turn away from the screams on the streets, he can not bear to do the same again, even if it means fighting his own brother's men.

As he runs, foreboding fills him. He does not think it is a coincidence there are such sounds here and now, where the royal family can be found. He knows Tywin's mind and the turn of his thoughts and it fills him with dread. Tywin is not a kind man.

Thor barges through a broken in door, past the guards lying dead in their own blood. In the room is a scene of horror.

"Clegane!" he roars. Clegane pauses, his hands slick with blood. It is not for nothing that they call Thor the Thunderer - his little nephew Tyrion has oft japed that the sound of his voice could bring a cavalry charge to a halt.

Thor strides into the room, taking in the sight of Princess Elia huddled against the wall, wailing. Blood is trickling down her face. Her eyes are trained on a corner of the room, even though Clegane was in the process of taking off his breeches. He follows her gaze to the crumpled body of an infant, its head smashed in, thick blood dripping down a wall.

Thor sees red.

With another roar and a snap, Clegane is flung against the wall in a smoking heap. Thor descends upon him with his hammer again and again and doesn't stop until Clegane's head is a smear on the wall.

Breathing heavily, he turns towards the princess. Shame fills him as he sees her trembling form, her scared eyes trained on him.

"You have my thanks, Ser Thoros," she manages. She flinches when he goes to offer her a hand up, so he hangs back, uncertain.

"My lady," he says, trying to gentle his voice despite the urgency, "where is your daughter?"

Elia pales and raises a shaking hand against her mouth.

"She ran off to hide when we saw Lannister men approach."

Her gaze is strengthening, an undercurrent of steel that shames Thor further. It is Tywin's men, _Thor's_ men that had brought this calamity upon her and her family.

"My lady, forgive me for the presumption, but I cannot leave you here alone. I do not trust…" he does not finish that sentence, but he does not need to. Elia understands his meaning.

"Can you stand?"

She nods and gets to her feet. He leads her from her chambers and begins searching the rooms. He trusts her not to run. Where can she go? The entire keep is crawling with Lannister soldiers who will not hesitate to kill her.

In Rhaegar's room, they find Amory Lorch. Thor gestures for Elia to keep out of sight. At the noise of their approach, Lorch turns. He smiles.

"My lord Thoros! I saw the little brat run in here. She shouldn't be any troub - ack!"

Thor lifts Lorch higher, tightening his grip on his throat.

"You would slaughter a defenceless babe? Like Gregor did? Were I in a merciful mood, I would let you go and show you what I did to him for his deeds."

"B-b-but yo-your br-" Lorch tries to get out, choking. His expression is a mix of fear and disbelief.

"No brother of mine would order the slaughter of defenseless women and children!" Thor roars. He is lying. Tywin clearly has. And did. Not even today either - his brother's fame was built on one such slaughter. Thor had not been present for that, but he had not cheered when he heard of what had happened at Castamere. The very thought of it makes something in him ache in shame and guilt and betrayal _(why does he feel so betrayed?)_. It is an old ache. This one is new enough that he is not certain he can call Tywin brother any longer _(Tywin is not his brother, he never was)._

The thought feels oddly right.

Horns sound throughout the Keep. The Northmen that had been on their heels on the march have arrived. Stark is here. Thor can only hope he truly is as honorable as the rumors say.

"But it is not _my place_ ," the words curdle on his tongue and feel strange applied to himself, "to decide your fate, Lorch. We are off to see the king."

* * *

Tony looks at the small body covered in a red cloak and feels sick. He can barely hear the roaring argument between Robert, Ned and Thoros. Well, Tywin Lannister is part of it as well, but he does not deign to raise his voice. Instead, his tone is icy cold in contrast to Thor's raging fury.

Tony's own anger is more of a banked ember. They had arrived too late to deal with the king themselves. Aerys is dead at Jaime Lannister's hand. Had it not been for Thoros, all of Rhaegar's family would be dead as well.

Tony did not have the same disdain for Jaime as Ned had (he'd done what was necessary, vows or no), but his contempt for Tywin is boundless. And his contempt for Robert is growing. Aerys had been the mad king, a tyrant that slaughtered Lords and heirs with no regard, a brute that set people on fire and then raped his wife after getting excited by the flames. Are they to become the same? Murderers of women and children? _Merchants of death_ , selling it freely and cheaply?

Dragonspawn, Robert had called the tiny body. Tony thinks of Lyanna and her maybe not-abduction and the reasons she might not have returned to her family now that Rhaegar is dead. Thinks of kings and crowns and loyalties owed, of packs and the winter that will one day come. Between all of those things, he doesn't think Robert is going to win out as far as Ned is concerned. Tony knows sure as hell that he won't win out as far as he is. What sort of a leader murders children?

"THEN YOU ARE NO BROTHER OF MINE!" Thor's voice drowns out all the others, even managing to quiet Robert and Ned. They all stare at the Lannister brothers, as golden and furious as lions. There is something awfully familiar about Thoros in his rage, even though Tony could swear he has never seen him before.

"I held my tongue when we entered the city, even as our soldiers raped and pillaged. But you cannot ask me to hand over a child to be killed! A woman to be raped! Your _dog_ ," he spat the word at Tywin, "still had her son's blood on his hands as he was to do the deed. If those are the men you send to do your work, then I will not be one of them!"

Tywin's glare is as cold as a glacier. Tony can see the tension threading through him, held in an iron grip. That one is going to be trouble, no matter how this situation resolves.

"You shame the Lannister name, Thoros," Tywin says, voice almost a whisper, "If you repent your words here and now, I will forgive you and this will be forgotten. If you fail me, you are never to return home again and your name will be attainted throughout the Westerlands."

Thor shakes his head and steps back, disgust plain on his features.

"No, Tywin. You are the one bringing shame to our name. You might be a great lord, but you are _not_ a good man."

Tywin's face reddens with rage and, Tony thinks, embarrassment. He turns on his heel and exits the great hall without another word. Off to lick his wounds and plot revenge, no doubt.

"My lord Stark," Thor turns to Ned. He tries and fails to project an air of weary humor. It only makes him seem sad, "I find myself unexpectedly unburdened of family and position. I would not presume upon you for long, but I would be honored if you would have me until I can find a place for myself once more. Your defence of my actions has gladdened my heart more than I can say."

Ned looks thoughtful, but Tony is focused on Robert. The king's face is purpling and Tony knows this can get ugly in a hot minute. Thor's casual disregard of Robert and the not-so-subtle snub of his words are a slap to the face to him. So is the way Ned is deliberately not facing him.

"You've proven yourself a man of honor today, Thoros." Unlike the rest of his kin. The thought is plain to see upon Ned's face, though Tony is grateful he has enough sense to not say it out loud.

"I would be honored to have your strong arm by my side for however long you wish it."

Ned and Thor clasp hands, faint smiles on their faces. It has not been a day for much joy. Finally, Ned turns to Robert. The king is still seething, but he doesn't look like he's going to blow a gasket yet _(what's a gasket?)_.

"By your leave, Your Grace, I will go and relieve the siege of Storm's End," Ned's voice is frosty and cold, such a contrast to his first glad reaction when Robert had arrived in King's Landing.

"Damn you to all the Seven hells, Ned. Go. Bring peace to my kingdom and then look for my Lyanna. Thanks to him and his brother, I've got an even bigger mess on my hands. I'm sure Jon will know what to do with Elia and her brat."

Ned's lips thin. He looks to Tony, who winks and motions him off. He can handle keeping an eye on the previously royal family while Ned takes care of the rest of Robert's business. Robert's face in turn goes through a multitude of expressions, mostly anger and a curious sense of shame. From what Tony knows of the man, he idolizes his foster brother and his family. To be found wanting by them must hurt.

"For the gods' sake, Ned! They won't be harmed. Go."

Ned bows and leaves, Thor trailing behind. Tony steps up to Robert, a grin he doesn't feel stretched on his face. Robert looks vaguely irritated at him as Tony steers him away from the throne and the ghastly present lying at its steps.

"So, Your Grace, planning on doing anything about the smell in this city? I hear indoor plumbing is all the rage these days…"

* * *

They're all dead. Steffon Rogers scrubs his round shield even harder. The rush of the stream where he is trying to clean his shield should be soothing. Instead, it only serves as white noise for the chaos in his head and the endless chant of _they're dead they're dead they're dead_.

The paint won't come off. The blood had cleaned away easily, but the white paint is more difficult to get rid off. Still, he tries, scrubbing the shield with sand and water until his hands almost crack and bleed. He isn't worthy of the white anymore. Not after what he's done. His armor was simpler to change. Dirt and the rigors of travel are hell on any white. But his shield, usually a shining beacon of his pride in his position on the Kingsguard and also a dead giveaway of his identity, is less simple to change.

He doesn't want to be a part of what it represents anymore. He left his sword behind in that lonely tower, disgusted at what he'd been forced to do. But his shield can be more than what it was. He knows it. Used to defend, as he should always have done. Stood _up_ to the bullies. Not stood and watched and listened as -

A noise makes him look up from his furious scrubbing. Lyanna Stark approaches him, looking pale but determined. She isn't showing yet, but Steve knows it's only a matter of time. He wants to be out of Dorne and get her back to her family before that happens. They've avoided people in their travels so far, so they've had no news. But Steve knows that any sort of Prince's bastard - whether the prince is dead or not - could be a very real threat in someone's eyes no matter who wins this war.

Lyanna doesn't say a word. Instead, she drops next to him nearby and pulls out a long, pale sword and begins to clean it. Dayne's sword. Steve had wanted to leave it behind as well, but Lyanna convinced him to bring it along. Not to use, but to return to the Daynes. Steve thinks it's a sorry apology, but he knows the gesture will mean something to the family. In the end, it is probably better this way than making the family go to the Tower to witness the remains. _Why hadn't they just stood down?_

"Thank you for stopping them," she finally says, not looking at him as she wipes the blade with slow, careful movements. Steve flushes, anger and shame filling him. He should have acted far sooner. Before he'd ever heard the name Lyanna, even. No true knight would have stood by and watched while Aerys had done the things he did. Had he been in King's Landing at the time, would he have just watched while Rickard Stark burned? Or would he have stayed silent like the many times before when guarding Queen Rhaella? He had been _so_ close to disobeying, many times. Gerold Hightower had known and had taken pains to assign him to Rhaegar and his family as often as possible. Had taken him along when the king had ordered them to find Rhaegar.

"I should have stopped them sooner," is all he can say.

All that talk of standing up to bullies in his youth brought to naught in the face of a vow. But Steve had sworn other vows. Obedience or knighthood? _True_ knighthood, not the form of it infesting the cesspit of King's Landing and staining their oh so white cloaks with so much blood.

Hightower's demand in the end, to _'follow your orders, ser!_ ' had chilled him to the bone. It had struck a chord within him, a flash of understanding of the road _just following orders_ could lead him to. To obey the last order a mad prince had given him, or to help the maiden he had kidnapped and raped return to her family?

"I'm afraid I'm the one who wouldn't have listened then," she replies, trying for rueful but ending up sad and guilty.

"That wasn't your fault," is Steve's reflexive answer. A grown man of twenty four with a wife and children had no business courting a girl of fourteen. Nevertheless, Lyanna's eyes flash with anger.

"I chose to go with him." She laughs then, a bitter sound.

"It was all going to be so perfect, _he_ was so perfect. Just a bit of fun so my father didn't make me marry Robert. I never meant...gods, I was so stupid!"

She flings away the sword, hiding her face in her hands. Steve stops his scrubbing for a moment, watching her shoulders shake with suppressed sobs. After a long moment, she wipes her face and continues. It sounds like she needs to confess all of this before getting any peace, though Steve already knows the broad strokes of the story.

"I thought I could leave," she whispers. "It never occurred to me that I couldn't. Until I heard about...about father and Brandon. I wanted to leave then. I swear I tried to leave then."

She's looking at him as though she is desperate to make him believe her. She doesn't have to - he already does. He was there when Whent and Dayne had reported everything to Hightower. How their duty was to guard the Stark girl and prevent her from leaving. How Rhaegar had flown into a rage at her refusal. How he had ignored her objections, taken her by force and charged them to watch over her when news of the war could no longer be ignored and Lyanna was with child. And for what? A prophecy? The thought leaves him sick. Their actions left him sick.

He has forsaken one set of vows, yes. He won't forsake the others, to protect and defend the innocent. Even if they need protection from kings and lords.

"You left now," he reassures her. "I'll get you back home. I swear."

She manages a small smile at that and leaves. Steve goes back to scrubbing at the shield.

The white finally starts chipping away as the enamel crumbles under his assault. Underneath, red and blue rings and a single white star are revealed.

* * *

 _"What have you done?!" The raven cries. It flaps its wings in agitation, cawing. "You've changed everything!"_

 _The boy in the weirwood is not in the weirwood anymore. He doesn't know where he is. Things have been strange since he pulled those stars to his world. Disjointed. The visions come and go, like the tree visions. They are also nothing like the tree visions. Sometimes it hurts. Others, it is only quiet. And yet others, he is falling again. He doesn't want to fall._

 _"Wake up, boy! Wake up!" The raven pecks at him and the boy spreads his wings again, the wicked spikes jutting from the ground only just missing him. The raven hounds him until he can land on a tree. He tries to get away, but the raven is relentless._

 _"I'm sorry! I just wanted to help!"_

 _The raven caws a harsh laugh. In desperation to get away, he takes flight again, looking for that storm. It is all around them, yet not. He can't find a way back and when he tries, a crackling blue and gold field of lightning stops him. Stars fall from the sky, over and over._

 _The raven follows, its harsh cawing sounding mocking to his ears._

 _"Seven stars for your seven gods!" the raven laughs. They're not my gods, the boy tries to say, but can't speak. Cracks appear in the sky and darkness fills the gaps. He tries not to look, but can't. He is transfixed by the seeping horror and the Nothing beyond._

 _What has he done?_

 _The sky is whole and the stars fall. The raven suddenly veers away from him, winging to the sky. It tries to catch two of the stars and misses one. It falls away, far from reach. The second star is clutched firmly in its grasp._

 _It shines so brightly, bright enough to burn once it is held._

 _"What are you doing? Let it go!"_

 _The raven laughs again and holds it tighter. The star dims, exhausted. It lets go and the star falls again, far to the north._

 _"What did you do? Why?"_

 _"I gave us a chance, Bran. Now wake up!"_

* * *

Over the years after Robert's Rebellion, Anton Stark dreams. He dreams of another life filled with wonders beyond imagining, of armor that flies and machines that can move faster than any horse. Weapons so deadly they make him quail. So much death. But also life. Mothers that do not die in childbirth and children that do not die from disease. Enough food that winter is rarely a problem, even though they are oddly short. Houses barely large enough for a knight, but furnished enough to be the envy of kings.

He also dreams of falling.

So in his waking hours, Tony Stark does what he knows best - he builds. Ned had first viewed his quirks with bemused acceptance, even going so far as to tear down the broken tower in Winterfell to provide a space for Tony to work.

His bemusement had grown into surprised amazement at what Tony had managed to achieve and had been quick to commission projects to spread his inventions throughout the North. Glass as clear as crystal, stronger steel, compasses, dragonglass scalpels that were sharper than anything anyone had seen apart from Valyrian steel, indoor plumbing, harnessing lightning and even a printing press.

The most frustrating thing is that Tony knows he can do _so much more_ , if only he had better tools. Between making boatloads of money through his projects (the new still for more potent booze had proven the most popular), he often tries to work on that particular problem. He is driven by a sense of urgency he cannot explain.

Sometimes he is joined in his pursuit of science by a wandering maester with no chain. Tony swears he recognized Bruce the moment he saw him, but he cannot figure out where from. The odd thing is that Bruce told him the same thing, even as he failed to meet Tony's eyes. And not just Bruce. Thor, who had ended up following them back to Winterfell spoke of the same one evening when deep in his cups. Steve, before he had left after returning Lyanna, said it as well. Sometimes, Tony wonders if there are others out there who would say the same. That archer in Stannis Baratheon's service had given him some odd looks.

Still, Tony is happy enough where he is. Between his bursts of creativity and touring the realm to spread his inventions, he is content to watch his family grow. Ned and Catelyn have been busy turning out sprogs every few years it seems and even little Benjen has a family of his own in the holdfast Ned had given him. Lyanna - now too much of a political minefield to have married the king - has also settled down in Winterfell with her son Jon. She'd named him after the man Ned had such esteem for and who had argued for the life of her son once Robert had learned the truth. Needless to say, Ned's relationship with Robert is still on very shaky ground. If it were up to Tony, it would never get better. A person who smiled at dead babies is no one Tony wants near his nephew.

Tony hasn't settled down with anyone. He's been far too busy. And he also doesn't want to contemplate the ache in his heart whenever he considers finding someone.

Sometimes, he also dreams of red hair and a brilliant smile.

* * *

Thor adores his work as the Stark children's sworn shield. They are a lively lot, affectionate, loving and energetic. He has often spent hours playing with them instead of supervising them like a proper guard should, but Winterfell is one of the safest places Thor knows. It is no hardship to indulge them in their play or to accompany them where needed. It is only sometimes, when they fight as all siblings do, that Thor questions his life choices.

Thor finds Sansa in the greatly expanded greenhouses. For once, the girl has abandoned propriety and cleanliness and has hidden away underneath a bush of pale blue winter roses. Thor can hear her small sniffles from the entrance. With a sigh, he settles on a nearby bench and waits.

He has plenty of experience waiting out recalcitrant siblings after an argument. His brother had oft hidden in the library after one too many jests from Thor's friends had driven him there.

Eventually, Sansa emerges from the bush, frowning as her ruined dress is further torn by the rose thorns. Thor helps her disentangle herself. Frowning, but trying to pull her dignity around her like a cloak, she sits next to him. She fidgets and then stills, remembering her lessons. Then she fidgets again. This continues for a minute or so until she finally gathers enough courage to speak.

"I hate her," she says in a rush, "She always ruins _everything_!"

"Everything?" Thor asks mildly. Sansa is young yet, barely eleven. It is no wonder that the small pranks Arya plays on her sister oft feel like the end of the world.

"Everything!" Sansa confirms, voice grave. "She gets into everything, she never sits still, never listens! Mother says a proper lady is not supposed to act like that, running around and getting covered in mud, playing with the dogs."

"And do you always do what your mother tells you?" Thor hides his grin. As much as Sansa emulates her lady mother, even she has periods of wildness. Sansa's cheeks redden. Thor had caught her and Jeyne sneaking into the kitchens for lemon cakes just last night.

"I try to," she says instead, her face taking on a mulish cast.

"And how do you know Arya does not?" Thor remembers a small dark haired child always running at his heels, always trying yet never quite succeeding. He blinks and frowns at himself when Sansa glances away. All of his brothers are blond. Perhaps he was misremembering a childhood friend?

Sansa looks down, slightly ashamed. Thor knows she is not quite ready to admit to anything yet, however.

"It isn't _hard_ ," she pouts.

"Ah, my lady. It is not hard for _you_. You enjoy learning your courtesies and songs. Arya would rather roll around in the dirt."

That elicits a giggle from her before she grows quiet.

"Perhaps she wishes for you to join her at times, since she is so often forced to join you?" he suggests. To steal a little sun for herself instead of constantly being in Sansa's shade? The thought makes Thor ache with a sadness he cannot explain. He _misses_ fiercely. Who or what, he cannot recall.

"But she gets so dirty!" Sansa complains. Thor laughs.

"Is a little dirt enough to stop you from playing with your sister? Why, that is why showers were invented!"

Quite literally. Tony had tired of the amount of time it took to draw a bath and had invented a quicker method of washing. With the hot springs Winterfell was built over, the water can also be as hot as desired.

Finally, Sansa grins and bounces a little before remembering herself.

"Of course, it is only proper I indulge Arya once in awhile. What else are sisters for?"

"You are absolutely correct, my lady," Thor says as he plucks a rose from the bush. He presents it to Sansa with all the ridiculous courtesy he can muster, bowing low. She accepts it with a proper curtsy and immediately tucks it into her dishevelled hair. The blue looks striking against her auburn locks.

"Now, shall we rejoin the others?" Thor grins and presents an arm to escort her. Sansa brightens and manages to school her features into something more proper than the wide grin she had before.

"You may do us the honor, Ser Thoros."

Heart lightened, Thor leads her away.

* * *

Ever since he can remember, Bran has had strange dreams. Wolf dreams, raven dreams and tree dreams. All of them are exciting, but the tree dreams are the scariest. In them, he dreams of things that haven't ever happened - of lions prowling in the south unchecked; of his family being smaller and sadder; his father grim and wounded in a way he cannot help; of his cousin being his half-brother and his mother struggling with that knowledge; of his uncle in self-exile at the Wall; of his aunt lying dead in a tower; of his great uncle, his sworn shield, Arya's tutor, his aunt's kingsguard, and maester Bruce never existing.

Of all of those changes, the last one scares him the most. He knows their absence means the rest of it would have come to pass.

The knowledge fades during his waking hours and he can mostly ignore the differences around him. He climbs the walls of Winterfell with a strange relief he is even able to. Every stone and crack is as familiar to him as breathing and the absence of the old broken tower is a balm to his soul every time he sees the new building his great uncle creates wonders in.

He is particularly pleased at the changes he can see around him in the castle, though he has never known anything else. All changes that would make the long winters much easier to survive, small and large improvements that bring prosperity and wealth to the North. _(Far better positioned to levy a response when the Long Night comes.)_ It has become the envy of the Seven Kingdoms and all of it is thanks to Tony.

Bran cannot bring himself to feel guilty over it, though why he should feel guilt at all is a mystery to him. He has only ever wished to keep his family safe.

His family is happy now. Bigger than it was _(is? will be?)_ and happier than they were _(would have been?)._ His mother does not have to live with the specter of his father's lie, his aunt is alive and well and his father is far happier for it, and his siblings get along far better. This is good. Life is good.

Bran never wants it to change.

* * *

"Again," Natasha says as Arya hits the dirt. The girl scowls, but gets up and assumes her stance, thin blade held steady. Natasha doesn't show her approval in her expression, but she is pleased with Arya's progress. Her former instructors would be appalled, but Natasha's mission isn't to make Arya a killing machine as soon as possible. Even if it were, Natasha does not have the heart to subject this girl to those methods.

Without warning, Arya attacks. Natasha twirls aside with ease, parrying the girl's blade with her own. She is acutely aware of the audience they've gathered standing in the bridge above the courtyard. She doesn't let it distract her, however. Arya strikes again and Natasha disarms her.

"Ten seconds. I'm impressed," she says. Arya's frustrated glower transforms into a smile. Natasha lets a small one of her own form.

"Now go get cleaned up for your lessons with your Septa."

She ignores Arya's groan. By now, the girl has learned that anything more than that one display of displeasure will not be tolerated. Natasha has fought hard to make Arya see the necessity in appearance, the armor that only courtesy and social niceties could provide. Almost as hard as she has fought to get Sansa to see the poison those courtesies could hide.

It had helped Arya immensely when attending to her studies. Arya is as wild as ever, but now she is quicker to perform to the standards of ladyhood her mother and sister expected of her. Natasha knows that is also the only reason Lady Catelyn has let this fancy of her daughter's go on as long as it has. She knows Arya thinks so as well. Arya will do anything to continue her water dancing lessons, even attend to her boring ones.

"Are you going to teach me more of that unarmed stuff later?" Arya asks, eager with excitement. Natasha hides a smile. She doesn't think she's ever had a more enthusiastic recruit.

"Only if your needlework improves. Neat stitches are essential for proper wound treatment. Less scarring," it's probably not a use of her skills Lady Catelyn would approve of, but it helps Arya focus. Sure enough, Arya's face settles into a determined cast.

"I'll improve at it, even though I hate it. Mine'll be even better than Sansa's! You'll see!" she says and runs off. Natasha watches her fondly, before beginning to clean up the training yard. It is not technically part of her duties, but her watcher has still not left.

Anton Stark unnerves her. Her original mission had been to go to Winterfell to observe him and report back. Her employers in Myr had not been happy about the sudden surge of glass being available in Westeros and had charged her to deal with it as she saw fit. Tony Stark had made her the moment she walked through Winterfell's gates...and did nothing.

She had been intrigued enough to stay, intrigued enough to offer herself as a tutor once Arya had pulled one stunt too many. Lady Catelyn had not meant her tutoring to include weapons training, but any complaints from her had soon stopped upon seeing the results. But Anton Stark still worries Natasha.

He has made no moves and has never indicated even the slightest intention he is going to out her. She trusts that he won't and that is what worries her. He has done nothing to earn her trust. He has no reason to keep her secrets and every reason to send her away. And yet, she is _certain_ he does not want to harm her, does not want anything from her. Everybody wants something from her, that has been a constant in her life from the moment she had woken up in the Temple of White and Black with no memory to her except her name. To have that certainty shaken is disturbing.

Also disturbing is the fierce fondness she has developed for these people. Her job requires her to stay neutral, to not form any ties. She has already prevented seven assassination attempts against the Starks since arriving, some she is sure are from her actual employers. Or rather, former employers. She had received word to eliminate Anton Stark and all those connected to his glassworks months ago. Instead, she has saved his and his family's lives enough times she can't even justify it to herself as a fluke.

Perhaps it is best to bow to the inevitable now? She turns to look directly at Stark, a part of her pleased at the way he jumps. It is time they had a long talk.

* * *

 _Loki does not dream of falling. He does not need to, for he is still falling. He has not stopped falling. He wants it to stop, wishes it to stop, but his only answer is the crushing blackness of space. It never ends, even as he is plucked from the void and a scepter put into his grasp, even as he leads an invasion he knows is doomed to fail, even as Space and Mind conspire, displeased with their use and the heroes that would stifle them._

 _Loki falls. Until he is caught. The raven caws, three eyes far too bright for a normal bird. What? He is not supposed to be still. There is only the fall, there should only_ be _the -_

 _The raven lets go and Loki plummets once more. It is different, somehow. The ground rushes towards him and there is an end in sight. He should be relieved. He is scared. The ground is a sea of red and white that soon resolves into towering pale trees with bloody hands grasping towards him. All else around him is snow._

 _He falls and crashes into the trees, entirely obliterating a few with the force of his landing and splintering others. For a moment all is still. Then the pain comes._

 _He cannot even scream, for one pale branch is jutting from his chest, piercing his lung. He gurgles a rasping breath, blood dripping from his mouth. The branches around him seem to strain towards it. The bone white branches should be soaked in his blood. They remain white, even as the red drops fall towards their roots._

 _He opens his eyes to see a strangely childlike face above his own. More appear and they pull him from the tree. He cannot scream, cannot move and cannot fight, even though he wishes to._

 _There is a presence in his mind. Bone weary, he still fights it. But he is laughably weak and the raven takes over. It keeps him calm as the Children of the Forest lead him deep into a cave, where the roots of the great trees gleam in the darkness. They place him in an oddly shaped space within the roots, across from the skeleton of an old man. The skeleton opens one blood red eye. Loki thinks of Odin with loathing. They force something bitter down his throat until it almost tastes sweet._

 _The roots take hold then and he drifts for an eternity. He dreams. Terrible dreams of ice overtaking the land and the dead rising. Of the plans so carefully laid out over a century ruined because of a boy's wish to save his family. Sometimes, Loki can almost feel the boy there, a ghost presence in limbo there-yet-not because the future is splintered._

 _And above it all, he dreams of the net cast in gold and blue, made of mind, memory, and whispers and infinite, terrible space. He can see the delicate threads holding the future together, held in place by the raven. It is not of the raven's making, but it suits its plans._

 _The raven feels his intentions a fraction too late. It subsumes his mind, but not before Loki takes the net and_ tears _it apart._

* * *

Anthony Stark is in his workshop when the block on his memories fails. The pain is such that he reels from it, almost falling to the floor. Instead, he drops the obsidian he'd been trying to make precision tools out of and clutches his head. There is so much. Too much. Not the memories, but the implications of them.

He has spent nineteen years in this world, knowing that something was wrong, that he is not supposed to be here. Nineteen years and he has not aged a day. Nineteen years of forgetting his former life, _Pepper_ , Iron Man and the other Avengers.

At least he is not alone in this world. Have they also remembered? Has _Ned_ remembered? The thought is oddly painful. Ned is no more his nephew than Tony is Anton Stark, but the feeling has not gone away. He has spent nineteen years as part of a family he loves. His memories of Essos might be false, vague as they are, but his time spent in Winterfell has been real. Yet he is not related to these people, for all that they share a last name. The universe sure does love making jokes at his expense.

He pushes the grief aside. He has to get to the bottom of this first and worry about the emotions later. How did this even happen? The last thing he remembers on Earth is - falling.

His nightmares aren't nightmares. He remembers now, the light and the boy in the weirwood. Bran. That had been Bran! How could it be Bran? Bran is a precocious sprog that is constantly climbing the walls of Winterfell and bugging him to watch his science, not stuck in apparently psychic trees. Jesus, how much of those stories from this world everyone dismisses as legends are actually true?

If that dream is true, are the others true as well? The offshoots of the ones where he falls, where the White Walkers rise and bring the dead to life. Tony groans. Just what he needs. Ice zombies on top of everything else. Knowing his luck, there is no way those are going to stay dead and buried.

At least he knows where most of the Avengers are. Thor and Natasha are here, as is Bruce. He hasn't heard from Steve much, but the knight the smallfolk call the Dragonknight come again won't be too hard to find. The only one that is missing is Clint. Tony doesn't think he needs to worry about Clint. If he also regained his memories, he will likely come to them. It's not as though Tony made his presence a secret.

The door to his workshop opens and in the doorway is Ned, looking pale and confused. One look at him and Tony can tell the memory block failed on him too. Tony lets out a nervous chuckle.

"So uh...funny story. I'm from a different world entirely and your kid somehow drop kicked me and my friends into the past before he was even born. Surprise?"

* * *

Travel to Winterfell has grown easier after Tony had reinvented asphalt years ago. With the Kingsroad in much better repair, it takes Steve and Bruce mere weeks to arrive. Clint arrives only days later, having travelled by boat from Dragonstone to White Harbor.

It is strange having the Avengers together again. Even stranger to realize that no one else in Westeros is aware that they don't belong. Except for Ned. But even Ned has trouble holding the thought in his mind. It is as though a fog rolls in and obscures the knowledge. Ned is aware of the change, but the past nineteen years of their lives made the lie easy to accept, to brush aside.

Tony is beyond grateful to still be accepted as family, as guilty as that makes him. But Ned's acceptance didn't stop him from interrogating Tony day and night, speculating about the cause at first and later fascination with the world he truly comes from. He'd also demanded to meet the rest of the Avengers, only slightly chagrined at how many of them were already close by.

They are now gathered together in Winterfell's godswood beneath the weirwood. Tony is now monumentally creeped out by said tree. Are they being watched? If so, who is watching them?

"How did we never notice?" Bruce says, looking haggard. He'd forgotten about the Hulk and had confessed to Tony his belated terror at what would have happened had he been unleashed. Tony has been more impressed Bruce hadn't hulked out once in these past few years. It just went to show that if people had left Bruce alone his life would have been a lot easier.

"I noticed, I just thought it was weird dreams," Tony says, "You know, eating cheese before bed type of weird dreams."

"I think I find it weirder no one noticed there were eight Kingsguard at one point?" Steve says from where he's sitting at the roots of the tree, head in his hands. Besides him, Thor fidgets and crosses his arm.

"I think it fortunate I broke with Tywin when I did. Had I gone back to Casterly Rock, I doubt the rooms I thought were mine would have been waiting for me."

Carefully not stated by either of them is their relief at not truly living the life they had. Both had broken with the horrible situations they'd been placed in the moment they'd actually arrived, their memories telling them of previous times otherwise notwithstanding. It is curious, they way they'd been each been dropped into an equivalent of their worst nightmares and their memories played with to make it seem acceptable. It left Tony convinced that something is definitely fucking with them.

Tony nods.

"I checked the records here, analog as they are. Whatever happened just fucked with people's memories, not with anything physical. There's no record at all of anyone called Anton Stark ever existing."

"So what are we going to do?" Clint asks. He looks fairly relaxed, but Tony can tell he's also pissed. His backstory had been that of a runaway slave that had joined a mummer's troupe. Not to mention Clint's recent sensitivity to people messing with his head thanks to Loki.

The calm blank expression on Natasha's face also scares him. Whoever had the balls to drop her back into working for shady assassin's best run far far away.

"We find out who did this and find a way to get back to Earth," Natasha says. There's nothing overtly violent about her stance, but Tony fancies he can feel the coiled tension she's practically projecting.

"I do not think whatever did this is a person," Thor says, rubbing at his jaw thoughtfully, "While we were brought to this particular world thanks to Bran's wish, he would not have had the power to pull us through. I suspect this was the work of the Tesseract and the scepter."

"You're talking about those things like they're alive," Steve says, finally looking up. Thor shrugs.

"Not alive as such, but...aware. We meant to stop them being used. And then Lady Natasha brought them together to close the portal upon their defeat."

"So they threw a hissy fit and got rid of us? Complete with mental torture. Just great," Tony sighs, "How do we even get back if it took a pair of cosmic infinite energy sources to bring us here?"

"I do not know. But I mean to find out. I must find my brother," Thor says, voice full of determination.

"Loki's here too?" Clint says, body now tight with tension. All of the other Avengers are staring at Thor, hoping he hadn't said what he had.

"Aye, I believe so. Did none of you feel his seidr when the block on our memories broke? That was his doing. I suspect to frustrate the plans of whatever placed us where we were."

"Great, so now he's helping us," Tony rolls his eyes, "bag of cats is right."

"I cannot guess at his motives. But I believe he may have the answers we seek. I will search for him."

"And in the meantime, I think the best thing is to act like nothing has changed," Tony says, "If whatever dreams I've been having are actually true, this whole planet is going to go to shit very soon."

"Aw man, those dreams are real? Not ice zombies," Clint whines, "I hate zombies."

Tony shrugs, forcing a cheerful tone, "Hey, we might all get lucky and I'm dead wrong. Can't hurt to prepare though and stop this continent from descending into flames before the actual apocalypse starts."

Clint snorts.

"How hard could it be?"

All of them except Thor groan. Tony lifts his hands dramatically, bemoaning their fate.

"You just jinxed us. We're all doomed."

* * *

"You know, I hate being right," Tony grumbles from atop the ice wall. Below them, hoards of the dead were marching. They'd brought scores of Wildlings over the wall, but there are millennia of corpses for the Others to choose from, helpfully preserved by the cold.

Beside him, Steve snorts, adjusting his gauntlet.

"You love being right," he says. Tony just shrugs the best he can in his armor. It is a hack job, even compared to the one he'd built in a cave, but it is still generations better than anything ever produced on this world. Once he'd remembered he has an arc reactor instead of a mess of scars on his chest, the power issue had mostly been solved. He'd even managed to skip the fossil fuel part of the industrial revolution thanks to it.

Overhead, Daenerys' dragons wheel through the sky, Daenerys and Jon sitting atop the great beasts. Below and all along the wall, the armies of the Seven Kingdoms are gathered, led by Robert Baratheon. That little clusterfuck is yet to be dealt with, but both had thankfully agreed to smash some ice zombies before bickering over that melted slag heap of a throne. Robert in particular is reliving his glory days with Ned.

"It just happens so often," Tony says, enjoying needling Steve. It's a great distraction from their probably imminent deaths. Steve just rolls his eyes.

A few dozen feet away, given a wide berth by the rest of the soldiers, Thor is speaking to Loki in a low voice, his hand clasping Loki's neck in reassurance. Loki's gaze is still half-mad, his mind strained to the breaking point by whatever had happened to him beyond the Wall. He's ignoring Thor, eyes trained only on the dragons above. Tony just hopes Loki won't decide to "accidentally" roast them all if he decides to shapeshift into one.

A raven caws at them as it flies overhead. Loki flinches violently and the knife he throws just barely misses the bird.

"Hey, cool it, Crazy Jet," Tony snaps at him. The raven circles Tony a few times before landing on his shoulder. Tony can see Bran's intelligence shining from the bird's eyes. It nods once and then flies off.

Tony grins at Steve. He flips his visor down and powers up his suit.

"Showtime."

Time to fight for the dawn.


End file.
